Tangible
by ScarletFox456
Summary: "John." There it was. That voice. That familiar baritone that reverberated in every molecule of my body as it said my name with that unique inflection I grew to love, but it was barely a whisper... Short story. John/Sherlock. Rating may change.


**Hello everyone!**

**This is my first Sherlock fic created out of boredom. I'm not comfortable writing long stories so this will only be a couple chapters, but, depending on how well it does I might continue.**

**Feel free to review.**

**Enjoy :)**

"John."

There it was. That voice. That familiar baritone that reverberated in every molecule of my body as it said my name with that unique inflection I grew to love, but it was barely a whisper, ghostly and ethereal, so I passed it off as a figment of my imagination. I was hearing things again. Just another side effect of a weary brain exhausted by grief. I shook my head. I couldn't let this get to me. I kept walking, hunching my shoulders against the stinging rain and slipping my cold fingers into the warmth of my pocket. I cleared my mind of stray thoughts that would prevent me focusing on getting back to my flat and out of the biting cold and pouring rain.

"John."

Again I heard it. This time strong and clear and rooted firmly in reality. I stopped mid stride, startled. My heart pounded in my ears as I stood frozen to that spot like a castle grotesque. The tangibility of that voice frightened me down to my bones. It sounded too real, too close. I couldn't have imagined it.

Footsteps splashed on the wet pavement behind me almost inaudible through the thundering rain. The ones I heard were slow, deliberate and tentative. An uncertainty in their frequency led me to believe that their owner was unsure and hesitant. Yet, still I remained frozen on the sidewalk even after the footsteps ceased less than a meter behind me. I wanted to turn around. I wanted to see who it was that possessed that voice. _His _voice. But I could not. My muscles refused to work. I was paralyzed by the fear of seeing only what I wished to see. What I wanted to see. I was afraid of turning around and being faced with heart-wrenching disappointment. My heart couldn't take another blow like that.

"John, turn around. Please."

A hand reached out and brushed my shoulder. The touch was firm and held within it a palpable desperation.

I saw a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye. A large pale hand with long, slender, elegant fingers. I felt my breath catch. There was only one person in the world I knew with those hands. The elegant hand gently urged my catatonic body to move and I found myself following its lead. Slowly I turned, my breathing shaky and ragged from the anxious anticipation of what I believed to be the inevitable disappointment that awaited. Though, in a small corner of my soul, I couldn't help the small light of hope that flickered to life in that very instant.

"John?"

My eyes shut instinctively as I completed the 180 in a last ditch effort to protect myself.

"Open your eyes, John."

Cautiously, I opened them. One and then the other.

That was the moment my world stopped.

It would be a lie to say that I knew what I felt in that moment. So many emotions enveloped me as a stared into those gray-green eyes. Eyes I thought were gone forever. The same eyes that were staring lifelessly at the sky in the last memory I had of them. Yet, here they were, scanning my features full of life and unrestrained concern.

In my mind I thought it a dream. That I was just hallucinating. That none of this was real. My mind kept reasoning against what I was seeing despite the evidence that was clearly in front of me. I just couldn't process it.

"John!"

The hands on my shoulders shook me, trying to elicit a response I couldn't give.

"Are you alright? John! It's me!"

Suddenly, reality came crashing back to me and I could hear the rain falling around me again. I could feel the wet and the cold and the goose bumps rising on my skin. I had thought the dream was over but he was still there standing in front of me, the same look of worry etched on his angled face as before.

It was then that the truth dawned on me.

It was real.

_He _was real.

When I finally found my words they could only come out as one.

"Sherlock…"

"Yes, John, I'm here." He smiled in relief when I responded.

"Sherlock…" I reached out and touched his face, still not convinced he was there in front of me. I needed physical proof. And when my fingers brushed against his warm, solid flesh, I couldn't contain the emotions that consumed me. Relief, elation and joy quickly devolved into a seething rage. I saw the man in front of me and felt betrayed.

Three years.

Three years of hell.

I barely remember swinging. All I remember is seeing Sherlock staggering back with his hand clasping his face. He stared at me, bewildered. Blood dripping down his lip from his injured nose.

"I believe I deserved that."

I stood there and seethed. My cane shaking in my grasp and angry tears flowing from my eyes.

"Three years, Sherlock. Three bloody _years_!" My voice cracked. I couldn't stop the tears. Sherlock looked on, visibly distressed and wondered why. Then I realized that, before now, he had never seen me cry.

"John…I'm sorry." He approached me even though, in that moment, I wanted nothing to do with him. But I couldn't protest. I couldn't say no because in that moment he did something he'd never done.

He embraced me.

All the fury and betrayal I felt fell away as he wrapped his arms around me. I just wept. Relishing in the joy I felt about one simple fact.

Sherlock was alive.


End file.
